


wretched lingering

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Angst and Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Church Route, It's Silver Snow and Ferdibert. Let that be your warning, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Pining, Romance, Secret Relationship, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 04:55:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28914957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: On the eve of the final battle, Ferdinand steals into Enbarr and reflects on what his choices have cost him. But he is not the only one with regrets.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 5
Kudos: 41





	wretched lingering

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this beautiful piece](https://twitter.com/CryptidKaye/status/1272042029384515584?s=20) by @CryptidKaye, in turn based on a painting by John Everett Millais. Please go check out their work!

Ferdinand presses his hand against the brick wall. Mortar falls away from under his palm. He glances upwards and sees how the vine has become embedded in the structure; how there are cracks in the joints; how the workmanship, once solid, sags under the weight of the aged plant. His heart feels just as broken and unstable. This place, near the outskirts of Enbarr, is a place forgotten; if by him, at least by the person who matters.

A gasp behind Ferdinand breaks his reverie. He spins, hand dropping to his hilt on instinct. He draws his sword in one smooth motion, holds it in both hands, feet spread for balance. His brow furrows with the resolve of what he must do regardless of who it is intruding on his uneasy peace.

But then he sees who it is. His heart, despite its crumbled state, flutters.

Hubert was also quick to draw: his left hand is raised, palm facing the sky. A poisonous, purple orb floats above it. Miasma. Months earlier, during the assault on Garreg Mach after the professor’s return, Ferdinand was hit with the same spell. His side pangs with the memory, knowing Hubert to be more skilled than the mage who attacked him.

But Hubert doesn’t follow through with the attack. Instead he stares, lips parted, chest rising and falling a little too quickly. Taking everything in. Taking Ferdinand in.

Ferdinand studies him the same way, drinking in the details of a face once so well known. Hubert is pale, which is not unusual. Wavy, black locks of hair cover his right eye—habit unbroken—though it is cut short at the back. His pale green eyes (people always claim they are yellow, but they’re not) shine with the same intensity of six years prior. Otherwise, his face looks longer, his eyes deeper set. It takes Ferdinand a moment to realise it is because of how thin his old classmate is; so thin that his cheekbones are sharp against his papery skin. A nonsensical fury ignites in Ferdinand’s gut. How could Edelgard allow her most trusted confidant, her greatest friend, her most loyal—the word still stings—subject, to grow to look so ill? So slight, so…defeated?

Words carrying that anger start their ascent from the deepest part of Ferdinand’s soul, but before they reach his tongue Hubert speaks.

“Why are you here?”

It is an accusation, not a question, bereft of any of the things Ferdinand wishes to hear in Hubert’s voice. Their gazes lock and the tip of Ferdinand’s sword sinks, his arms suddenly unable to handle the weight. But the glow cast by Miasma against Hubert’s neck and chin does not even flicker.

“You must know that you are trespassing,” Hubert growls. “That any Imperial soldier would kill you upon sight. You are easily recognised, Ferdinand. Easily identified. Are you strong enough to defend yourself against your brothers and sisters? Against your nation, your countrymen? Against the people you betrayed?”

If it had been a soldier, a butcher, a tailor, a baker—any single one of the thousands upon thousands of his countrymen and women—then yes. Yes, without a doubt. As foul as the admission sits in Ferdinand’s stomach, the blood of another nameless stranger would be nothing at all. But as Hubert stares him down, his sword slips from his fingers.

The thud of it against the ground is deafening. A noble never surrenders, a noble dies with his blade in hand. Ferdinand brings his feet together and stands straight, holding Hubert’s gaze, before dropping to his knees. A noble fights to the death, a noble never concedes.

“What are you doing?” Hubert demands.

Ferdinand lays his hands flat on his thighs. His gloves are an ugly yellow colour against the threadbare skirt of his tunic: stained with dirt and age and a myriad of other, unmentionable things. They are the same ones he wore when he fled Enbarr. He hasn’t the coin to replace them. What a pathetic image he must make.

“Speak!” Hubert shouts, and Ferdinand shudders. “I command it!

Ferdinand looks up to see the Miasma still there, ready, waiting. He clenches his hands into fists.

“I am surrendering,” he says, carefully pronouncing the words around the dryness in his throat.

Hubert’s brow creases. “No,” he replies immediately, shaking his head. “Get up. _Get up_ , damn you. Pick up your sword.”

Ferdinand swallows. In that second, he catches the briefest waver, the smallest uncertainty, in the tightening of Hubert’s jaw. It is enough.

“I cannot turn my sword against you, Hubert,” he says, with more tenderness, more affection, than intended. He sees the minute effect it has on Hubert, as though time itself has slowed. The anger flees his face, the tension his shoulders. A sharp breath rustles his cloak.

And the Miasma extinguishes. Air is torn from Ferdinand’s lungs as Hubert surges forward and grabs him by both arms, yanks him to his feet, slams him against the wall. The back of his head strikes the brick and his vision blurs. 

_By your hands then, Hubert,_ he thinks.

For years, Ferdinand has fought to survive. Now, knowing his time has come, even if it is in the cruellest of fashions, the fight flees his limbs. His eyes close. His thoughts settle. He waits for long, elegant fingers to tighten around his neck—it is the most direct method and Hubert has always been fond of being direct in these matters. He waits, determined to allow his executioner whatever time he may need to steel his resolve.

But the hands that would take his life do not move from where they bruise his upper arms.

Ferdinand dares to open his eyes. Hubert looks down at him, his breath fast and uneven. It stutters more severely when their gazes meet.

“Why are you here?” Hubert croaks.

This time, the question is not intended to elicit an answer. Ferdinand knows this because he knows Hubert. Hubert is one of the most intelligent, perceptive people in the Empire, if not all Fódlan. He needs no assistance in taking the measure of a room. Before the first glass of wine is poured, he knows who is responsible for the poison within.

He also knows why Ferdinand is there, in the last place they faced each other as something other than enemies.

Hubert loosens his grip. It gives Ferdinand relief from being crushed against the wall, but no opportunity to escape. Not that he wishes to, because in the next moment Hubert releases his arm completely to trail his fingers up it, back down. Ferdinand shivers at the touch, so gentle, kind.

Hubert drops his head so their foreheads rest together.

“Ferdinand,” he whispers.

Ferdinand cannot help but chase the tickle of Hubert’s breath against his lips to its source. Hubert’s hands turn possessive then, one abandoning its place in favour of grasping Ferdinand’s hip, the other scrunching in his tunic sleeve as an anchor to bring them closer together. He presses Ferdinand back against the wall as the kiss deepens, his lips demanding more and more. Eager to give, Ferdinand slips his hand up into Hubert’s hair as he embraces his estranged lover. His fingers tangle in the dark strands and revel in their texture. He wishes they could join together, become one and inseparable, never again torn asunder by the cursed forces of the continent and war.

“Ferdinand,” Hubert sighs against his mouth.

“My love,” Ferdinand responds.

Hubert takes a step backwards, drawing Ferdinand after him to take him in his arms.

“Forgive me,” he says, resting his right hand over Ferdinand’s temple. The touch is tender, though the hard press of Hubert’s rings can be felt through the soft leather of his glove. An illicit hope lights in Ferdinand’s chest. “I have hurt you.”

The cool pulse of healing magic soaks up the dull ache in Ferdinand’s skull, lingering from its impact with the wall. As it fades, he smiles and seeks Hubert’s lips again. Their second kiss is more leisurely, less desperate, without the adrenaline of being snatched from the jaws of death. When it ends, Ferdinand cannot move far, trapped within the circle of Hubert’s arms.

“Tell me the truth,” Hubert says. “Why have you, a general of the church’s army, ventured behind enemy lines on the eve of battle?”

“Why have you, the emperor’s confidant,” Ferdinand counters, “ ventured to such a remote and nonstrategic corner of the city?”

Hubert combs his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair. “I am tasked with defending Enbarr.”

Ferdinand’s heart thuds. He recognises the deterministic expression on Hubert’s face. He has never feared it more. It is even worse than when they met at Gronder, that goddess-cursed occasion when neither of them dropped their weapon.

“No,” Ferdinand says, cupping Hubert’s cheek. “Tell me you won’t. Promise me you won’t!”

Hubert smiles darkly. “My lady has commanded it.”

“She has commanded you to your death? Then she is even less deserving of her crown than I thought!”

“Come now, Ferdinand,” Hubert chuckles, “how can you be so certain of victory before the battle has begun?”

Ferdinand does not laugh. He knows, as surely as his fellows-in-arms gathered outside the city walls, as surely as _Hubert_ , that the city will not stand. The Empire has lost the war. There is famine throughout the southwest of the nation and whispers of a weapon shortage. There are reports of soldiers deserting, of fortresses surrendering to a single Knight of Seiros at their door. Enbarr will fall, bowing before the church like the rest of the country.

“Hubert,” Ferdinand says, grasping his hand, “please. Do not count yourself so worthless. Do not throw yourself away in such a fashion.”

“At least allow me my pride,” Hubert murmurs, tugging his hand free in order to continue twisting Ferdinand’s hair around his fingers. “Allow me that.”

“This is not about pride! It is about life!”

“Is there one without the other?”

“Hubert!”

“Do not ask me to do what you would not do yourself,” Hubert says sharply. He drops his arms from around Ferdinand, fingers slipping from orange curls, and steps backwards. His voice is soft and deadly, his eyes narrow. “Would you abandon your conviction? The chances of you dying in the name of the church are just as great as mine under Lady Edelgard’s banner.”

Ferdinand shakes his head. “What we are doing is _right_.”

“What does ‘right’ have to do with it, Ferdinand?” Hubert drawls. “And how do you know it is on your side?”

“I…” Ferdinand clenched his fists. “I know it. We have to be right. If not, then…”

Now Hubert shakes his head, his jaw tight. “If you knew what I know—”

“No!” Ferdinand thrusts his finger at Hubert. “Edelgard attacked the church. You helped her! You started a war!”

Hubert folds his arms over his chest.

“You did not ask any questions,” he accuses. “You did not give m—us a chance to explain. Neither did the professor. I cannot forgive her for that, for the grief she caused Lady Edelgard. You and the professor abandoned us, Ferdinand. Do not now seek to blame me or Lady Edelgard for your choices.”

“You and Edelgard never gave _me_ a choice. You murdered my father and chased me from my home.”

“Your father was a traitor and a snake.”

“He was still _my father_.”

“Why you seek to emulate him is beyond my comprehension.”

“I do not seek to emulate him!” Ferdinand steps close to Hubert, close enough to have to tilt his head backwards to look at the taller man. “All I ever desired was to assist Edelgard to become the best emperor she could be. Yet you assumed I would take the same route as my father!”

“How else was I supposed to interpret your endless attacks upon her?” Hubert hisses, glaring down at him.

“They were not attacks but advice!”

“Be that as it may, you proved yourself to be just like him in the end, did you not?”

Hurt, pure and vivid, roars in Ferdinand’s chest. For Hubert to compare his siding with the church to the despicable actions of his father...it is more than he can bear, and before he realises what is happening a furious retort falls from his mouth.

“And you proved yourself to be just like yours.”

Hubert blanches. Ferdinand’s stomach drops. He reaches out, but Hubert knocks his hand aside, eyes narrow.

“I wonder what I ever saw in you,” he growls. “You, as always, are interested only in your petty, narrow concerns. You want the fame, glory and riches that come with being prime minister. Don’t deny it. You are a vain, hollow fool.”

With that, Hubert spins and strides away. Watching him go, Ferdinand’s heart breaks. It is a violent, life-shattering feeling. And he knows, knows beyond a shadow of doubt, that he cannot live without Hubert—or, if the goddess denies him that, without trying to stop the inevitable.

“Hubert!” Ferdinand cries, chasing after him. He grabs the other man’s wrist and tugs. Hubert doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t return the embrace as he is drawn into it. He is still in Ferdinand’s arms, a marble statue, cold and unwilling.

“I’m sorry,” Ferdinand whispers. He hides his face against Hubert’s tunic. “I’m sorry. Please. Please, let’s not part like this. Please.”

Hubert’s chest rises sharply. “There is no other way for us to part,” he says, voice cracking. “Have you forgotten the last time we faced each other here? We’ve already decided our fate.”

“We can change it.” Ferdinand looks up into Hubert’s eyes. “Let’s change it.”

“Are you truly so naïve?”

“Not naïve. Hopeful.”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert breathes, the weariness beginning to weigh on his frame, sinking it towards the ground, “our time together at the academy was stolen. It was a childish infatuation, never meant to amount to a thing.”

“What I feel for you has never been infatuation,” Ferdinand says. “And despite all your words, I cannot believe your feelings amount to anything less than mine. For what other reason did we both come here? Six years ago, in this very spot, you had the opportunity to kill me. Or put me in chains and drag me back to the palace. You could have ended it then. But you did not, Hubert. You let me go. You let me escape.”

Hubert sighs in frustration, lifting one hand to his brow. There is a long moment where they simply face each other, neither willing to back down, neither willing to end the encounter. Then, unexpectedly, Hubert drops his hand, settles his arms around Ferdiand’s shoulders and tugs him close.

“Then what do you propose we do?” he asks.

Relieved that the act is at an end, Ferdinand holds for a moment, thinking. An idea strikes him quickly and he shoves his hand into the pocket of his tunic.

“Here,” he says.

He shakes out the kerchief he has retrieved, white with the Crest of Seiros embroidered in dark grey. Taking Hubert’s arm, he wraps it around his bicep and loops its ends into a simple knot. But before he can fasten it properly, Hubert catches the band, fingers curling around it. He holds it there, prevents it from tightening.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

Ferdinand lifts his gaze to Hubert’s face. There are layers of confusion in his expression: residual anger from their argument, worry and concern for the coming battle. Heartbreak and longing.

“Wear it,” Ferdinand says softly. “They won’t hurt someone wearing the emblem of the church.”

Hubert sighs. “Ferdinand…”

“No!”

He winces at the sound of his own voice. He sounds like a spoiled child unable to get his way. Nonetheless, he presses on. He cannot keep silent in the face of what is to come.

“Do this for me,” he begs. “Fight for Edelgard if you must, but when... if the battle turns against you, find somewhere safe to hide and put this on.”

Hubert tugs on the armband, undoing the knot. “That is asking me to surrender.”

“It is asking you to live. _Live_ , Hubert,” Ferdinand begs. He has lost so much, his family, his home, his position. He cannot bear more. “Live for me.”

Hubert heaves another quavering breath and bundles the armband in his hand. Releasing Ferdinand, he steps backwards.

“I love you,” Ferdinand continues. “I can’t survive if you are gone. These past few years, knowing you are safe has given me the strength to carry on. To believe that my own life is for something.”

“You lie,” Hubert responds. “You never knew whether I was safe or not.”

“I did,” Ferdinand insists. “I would have known if you were gone.”

Hubert laughs gently. “Nonetheless, I cannot go against what I believe, dear.”

“What is the point of ideals if they destroy this?”

Hubert lifts his chin. Lines are deeply etched across his forehead, more evidence of the burdens he carries. Ferdinand wishes he could take them from him. Do more. Do _something_. Save him.

“What is more sacred, more precious, than love?” he says. “Whether between family, friends, or even two men who against all odds—their ideals, their circumstances, their own personalities—found each oth—”

Before the last word can leave his lips, Hubert grabs Ferdinand’s face between his hands and kisses him hard. At the sudden display of passion, Ferdinand’s heart races, his knees nearly crumble beneath him, He can focus only on the movement of their mouths together, the warmth overtaking his body. So when Hubert abruptly draws back, he is left dazed, staring blankly ahead.

“You are a wonderful, beautiful man, Ferdinand,” Hubert says, walking backwards.

Backwards. Away.

In the direction of the Imperial palace.

Ferdinand stumbles forward. He is not fast enough.

“Please survive,” Hubert says, the armband slipping from his fingers to the cobblestones below. “Live for me.”

Ferdinand lunges for Hubert’s arm, but his hand passes through empty air and a flash of red light. The other man is gone, vanished into nothing.

“No!” His shout echoes off the harsh planes of Enbarr. “Hubert!”

Ferdinand runs. He follows the wall south, towards the centre of the city, where the palace is. But before long he enters a square and stops, startled. Usually crowded with a market at this time of day, it is eerily silent, empty. Abandoned because of the coming storm.

Remembering the danger he is in, Ferdinand bites his lip against another shout threatening to escape. He can hear the clatter of armour, the bark of orders. Imperial soldiers. At once he turns and flees back towards the city gate, back towards the forces of the Church of Seiros. He pauses only to scoop the abandoned insignia from the ground.

***

_Hubert._

The desperate cry chases him down the palace corridor. He strides through it quickly, the windows on his left flashing past. Wanting, needing to outrun the cry.

“Hubert.”

He halts at the sound of his lady’s voice. He is grateful for the way it drowns out Ferdinand, but also horrified that she should see him in such a state. Fortunately, the setting sun means his face is in shadow. He has the blessing of a moment to swipe his eyes before facing her.

Edelgard looks ethereal, glowing in the light of dusk pouring through the windows. At this time of day she wears not the robes and armour the world is accustomed to seeing her in, but a long, white gown and a dressing robe tied loosely at the waist. But even in her simplicity, Hubert sees his emperor and bows.

“My lady,” he says.

“What are you doing here?” Edelgard asks, stopping in front of him. She folds her arms over her chest. “Did you go out?”

She knows because this is the place to which he always returns. He tugs on his coat, trying to appear nonchalant. Fortunately it is a talent he has always possessed: to appear as though he has no feelings.

“A few last minute preparations,” he answers.

“And now?”

“Now, Lady Edelgard?”

Edelgard gestures down the corridor. “You are heading towards your office rather than your bedchamber.”

Hubert glances in the direction she indicated. He hoped to keep this part of his mission secret.

“Letters, Lady Edelgard,” he murmurs. “To the steward of my estate.”

Edelgard smiles. It is strained. “Plans for your return after our victory?”

The belief that neither of them will live to see another sunset is heavy in her voice. It nearly breaks through Hubert’s shields. His whole life, he has dealt in death. He’s never thought himself susceptible to a personal fear of it due to familiarity. But now, he realises he does fear it; but not for the reasons he has observed in others—illness, pain, the unknown. He fears it because it means he will be separated from the two people who mean the most to him.

Hubert nods, the action crushing down his desire to weep. “Of course, Lady Edelgard.”

She nods, then throws her arms around his waist and buries her face in his coat. He holds her in return, rubbing her back with one hand. A pathetic attempt at comforting her.

“Thank you, Hubert,” Edelgard says, tears thickening her voice. “Thank you for everything.”

“It has been my honour,” he responds, daring to squeeze her tight. She returns the gesture.

As Hubert holds her, it occurs to him how slight she is in his arms. A stark comparison to _that_ man, strong and solid, grounding and radiant. His heart—what miniscule sections of it are left—fractures further, so much that it is a miracle he doesn’t collapse there and then. For the first time in his life he contemplates disloyalty. What would it be like to abandon his liege for a different, quiet—maybe happy—existence?

But, in the end, Edelgard is his life. He has served her since childhood. Planned, started, fought a war beside her. He has given her his everything, while she saved him from a miserable life crushed under the fist of his father. 

And at this very moment, she needs him. She needs him much more than the man he loved for a mere twelve moons.

That thought is comforting when he sits alone in his office much later, staring at the two sealed scrolls on his desk. Edelgard needs him. She has no one else. Ferdinand has their old classmates, the professor. Even the church. He professes love for Hubert, but in the end he will find someone else.

He _must_ find someone else.

Besides, Hubert never deserved such brilliance.

***

For weeks, Ferdinand has disguised his sadness at the coming battle as a reaction to the destruction of the Adrestian empire. When the professor spoke with him, he told pretty little tales: The Empire’s time has come, but part of me wants it to survive. To not have an Adrestian emperor...

In Enbarr’s streets, he strikes down enemy after enemy with no hesitation, and wonders if his friends can now detect the lie. Surely someone distressed by the imminent death of his homeland would not take to the battle so fiercely. Or maybe they assume that he has succumbed to his duty as he does in all other things.

Only when he comes face-to-face with Hubert, the last man standing between the church and Edelgard, that he realises he has not fooled a single one of his friends. All because Petra gently touches his arm when she stops beside him.

Mortified, he clears his throat. They are ahead of the rest of the army. Perhaps there is still time.

“Hubert!” he calls across the square, voice shaking. “She must leave. Stand down.”

_Please, do not make me do this._

“You really think you can make her?” Hubert responds.

_I have made my choice. It is too late._

“It does not matter what I think,” Ferdinand says. “Those...those are my orders.”

_Please. Stand down._

Hubert lifts his hands. Ferdinand only just stops himself from grabbing Petra’s arm as she leaps forward in response. She is faster than anyone else in the army, known for her stealth, her rapid strikes. But she is not quick enough to reach Hubert before he casts Banshee. There is a scream as the twisting black and purple spell hits her, a scream torn from Ferdinand’s own throat. This is wrong. His friends shouldn’t be attacking the man he loves. The man he loves shouldn’t be attacking his friends.

As Hubert lowers his hands, Ferdinand crashes to his knees beside Petra and draws her into his lap. She is unconscious, but breathing. He sighs in relief. The spell wasn’t enough to kill.

“Running into you in the capital like this—”

Ferdinand looks up to see Hubert advancing towards them. There’s no uncertainty in his step, no regret, no feeling. Only death. He walks with the deliberate, careful pace of death.

“—I have to say, it’s almost sentimental.”

“Don’t mock me,” Ferdinand whispers, heart aching.

Hubert stops a few feet from them. He nods towards Ferdinand’s weapon, abandoned in his rush to help Petra. “Pick up your sword.”

“No,” he says, holding Hubert’s gaze.

Hubert smiles. “You choose now, of all times, to abandon your duty?”

“Tell Edelgard to surrender.”

“The Emperor will not surrender.”

“And _I_ will not fight you.”

Hubert lifts a hand. A writhing orb of death forms above it.

“Even with your friend helpless in your arms?” he asks. “Will you sacrifice her life as well as yours?”

“Are you trying to make me hate you?” Ferdinand spits. “You are treating this like a sick game.”

Hubert’s jaw twitches. “It is no game,” he says. “I would never gamble with Lady Edelgard’s life.”

“Then for the goddess’s sake, raise the flag!”

“Are you looking for your moment of glory, Ferdinand? Still trying to be the one who convinces the bloodthirsty villain to change his ways?”

“Nothing you say will—”

“It’s almost a shame to kill you,” Hubert says loudly, cutting across Ferdinand. “Not even death will make you consequential.”

Those words hurt more than any physical attack could. All the same, Ferdinand flinches when Hubert starts the incantation. He drops over Petra, shielding her. Air rushes past his ears, sucked into the void that Hubert’s power creates. Then, suddenly, there is an almighty roar. The thrum of an ancient weapon slicing through the magic. Something warm—wet—splatters across the side of Ferdinand’s face.

And there is silence. Against it, his breath comes fast, his heart hammers. He is alive.

“Ferdinand?”

He opens his eyes to find Petra peering up at him. She is alive.

They are both alive.

“You two okay?”

Catherine crouches down in front of them. Her hair is coming loose and her face is dirty. She rests Thunderbrand across her knees, almost nonchalantly. Its glow highlights the new blood splattered across her breastplate and face, adding to the already considerable mess on her white armour.

“You’re lucky I was close,” she says. “If I’d been a foot further away, you’d both be toast. But no matter. He’s finished.”

Ferdinand’s breath hitches. But Petra catches his head between her hand, holds it still. Prevents him from looking towards Hubert.

And he can see the truth. She knows. She has seen.

Petra keeps her hands there, gentle but firm, as she sits up and twists onto her knees. Ferdinand finds himself captivated by her kind, brown eyes, the promise of refuge they contain.

“You must look only at me, Ferdinand,” she says. “Only at me. Nowhere else.”

He wraps his fingers around Petra’s wrists, something to anchor him, to prevent him from being swept away.

“You okay, kid?” comes Catherine’s voice. 

Ferdinand can’t answer. He dares not look away from Petra. Blood thrums through his veins, his heart batters against his ribs. His skin prickles, hyper-aware, as though he could sense a butterfly landing on the plate of his armour. Yet he struggles to draw air. His chest heaves, his lungs burn. Only Petra is steady against the trembling, the broken screams, the world crumbling around him. She smiles sadly and his breath comes a little easier. As his lungs fill again with air, she tilts her head to the side. Her thumb skims across his cheekbone, catching his tears and sweeping them away.

***

The bells of Enbarr ring with the order for surrender. Ferdinand hums aimlessly along from his spot on the floor of the palace’s entrance hall. He leans against the wall with one leg stretched out, the other bent to serve as a rest for his injured arm. Recklessness as they stormed the palace cost him the easy use of his right shoulder for the rest of the battle. Now, it hurts, a deep ache that suggests severe bruising. But it is no worse than the complaints in the rest of his body. The battle lasted over five hours, a marathon for even a well-trained soldier.

Around him, his fellow generals demonstrate the same weariness that seeps into Ferdinand’s bones. Petra’s head rests on his uninjured shoulder. The slow rhythm of her breathing suggests she is already asleep. Caspar is propped against a pillar near where the professor and Seteth hold council, trying to look alert even while his eyelids continuously slip closed. Dorothea slouches on the steps leading to the ministers’ antechamber, her head in her hands. Of their usual party, only Linhardt and Mercedes are absent. Although, that is no surprise. Their work begins in the aftermath of battle.

Overall, it is a sobering contrast to their state after previous encounters. Ferdinand remembers the elation and the rush that used to come with victory. The joy and relief. Today, he only feels hollow. He cannot summon any excitement that they have defeated the Empire. He cannot summon any congratulations. He cannot summon anything at all.

“Brother!”

The shout rouses Ferdinand from his musings. Flayn is running across the hall towards Seteth, waving a scroll through the air, one fastened with a heavy black ribbon and red seal. Ferdinand straightens. Petra starts, grasping for her knife. Ferdinand drops a hand onto her wrist, staying her attack.

Seteth strides forward to meet Flayn. “What is it?” he demands.

“An Imperial general bid me deliver this to the professor,” Flayn said.

She surrenders the scroll to the professor, who unfurls it quickly, glances at its contents, and looks at Ferdinand. In a moment, Ferdinand is on his feet, snatching the scroll from her. All around him is silence. At first, even with the hush, he cannot make out a single word. Hubert’s writing is as perfect and precise as it always was, the curves of the date inscribed at the top right—the previous evening—smooth and beautiful.

With a pained cough, he squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them to the first word.

_If you are reading this letter, that means I have perished. As Her Majesty would never surrender to another, I can only assume she has fallen as well. It greatly pains me to think of this coming to pass…_

Ferdinand crushes the letter in his fist and throws it at the professor, not waiting to see if she catches it. He doesn’t care. He turns on his heel and flees the hall. He runs through the palace with no destination. No purpose but to run. Past the audience chambers, through the corridor, out into the courtyard. The truth circling tortuously in his mind. 

Hubert prepared for his death. He planned it. He planned it all, and goaded Ferdinand on and...

“Ferdinand!”

He stops on the far side of the fountain in the centre of the courtyard. Flayn is huffing a little when she stops in front of him. He turns his face away, ashamed of his tears and of the fact that she was worried enough to chase after him.

A warm hand slips into his. Startled, Ferdinand looks down. Flayn offers an encouraging smile as she holds out something: another scroll, with the same black ribbon and red seal as the other. But looped through the ribbon on this one is a heavy, silver ring set with an onyx stone. Ferdinand’s breath catches.

“The general said that this one is for you,” Flayn says.

His fingers are numb as he wraps them around the scroll. Flayn squeezes his hand, then scampers away.

Sinking down onto the edge of the fountain, Ferdinand takes the ring between his thumb and forefinger and turns it towards the sun. The stone seems to swallow the light, absorbing it into its depths. With trembling fingers, he tugs on the end of the ribbon and unrolls the scroll. As he does so, the ring drops free into his palm.

_Garland Moon, 27_

_Ferdinand,_

_Before all else, I am sorry. I have never been the type of man you needed me to be and in the end, I know that I have disappointed you. But although I lack many of the qualities that make a man suitable as a husband, qualities you bear in abundance, at least I possess one: I am not taken to breaking my promises. I do remember, you see. And so this ring is yours. In return, I will hold on to the token that you gave me, though by rights I should return it too. I never understood why you entrusted me with such a precious heirloom. But then, those days were bright. The world was never evil in your eyes and somehow, neither was I. Those days were filled with hope. As was our meeting today, when you offered me another token of your affection, an invitation to another life. But darling, I cannot steal from you again._

_I am set on my course. Not even you, my love, can prevent what is to come. I have given instructions to your professor so that you may recover your archbishop and save Fódlan from those who would destroy it. That was to be my work after this war—but no matter. I know that you will join that fight. My final wish is that you survive, that you live and prosper and achieve everything for which you so valiantly strive._

_And despite the manner of our last parting, I pray that you remember me. But not too cruelly. Remember me as I was during those three glorious months before my obligations took me away._

_The Marquis Hubert von Vestra_

Ferdinand drops the letter to his lap. He lifts his fist to his mouth, Hubert’s ring clenched within it, and stops it, swallowing the scream that tries to escape. When the agony has settled in his stomach like lead, he unfurls his fist and stares at the ring. As the setting sun winks between the trees in the courtyard, he slips it onto his finger, then kisses the black stone as tears flow freely and unguarded down his face.

***

“Graduation is mere weeks away. Is it not exciting?”

Hubert smirks as Ferdinand throws himself against the stone balustrade of the Goddess Tower. For all his talk of noble behaviour, his boyfriend seems to be taking a great deal of delight in this illegal visit. His enthusiasm is, as always, catching.

That is, until he balances his forearms on the balustrade and leans forward, his torso thrust out into the empty air. Hubert’s stomach flips. He bolts to the edge of the balcony without thinking and grabs Ferdinand, drawing him back to safety. Ferdinand laughs heartily.

“I am not going to fall,” he whines as he slips his arms around Hubert’s waist.

“Anything could happen,” Hubert mutters, a shiver travelling up his spine as he casts his eyes down to the distant ground.

Ferdinand laughs again and kisses him. “Nothing is going to happen,” he says. “In a few weeks, we will return home. Edelgard will assume her work as heir. You and I will take our places in her circle of advisors and friends. And eventually, the three of us will transform Adrestia.”

“You are always so prepared to seize control.”

“You make it sound like a crime. This is what we were born to do, Hubert. We were born to lead.”

Hubert lets Ferdinand go, shaking his head, and retreats to the bench at the far wall. Firmer, safer ground than near the edge. Ferdinand drops down beside him and takes his hand.

“And,” he says, his voice suddenly thick and nerve-ridden, causing Hubert to raise an eyebrow, “perhaps, once we have settled into our roles, we might consider matrimony.”

Hubert’s other eyebrow shoots up. “Excuse me?”

Ferdinand meets his gaze shyly. “I have something for you.”

He shoves his hand into his pocket. When he pulls it back out, his fingers are wrapped around something, concealing it. He opens them to reveal a ring entirely of gold, a simple band with a large, oval bezel. The Crest of Cichol is engraved on its flat surface.

“Your signet,” Hubert states.

“Yes,” Ferdinand replies softly. “This ring has been passed down through generations of the von Aegir family. Now it is mine to do with as I please.”

Hubert’s heart skips a beat. “And you are giving it to me?”

Ferdinand reddens. “What could be more fitting than giving it to the man who holds my heart?”

It is a pretty line and one that Hubert cannot resist, despite his better judgement. Ferdinand brightens as Hubert takes the ring, a grin spreading across his face. He grabs Hubert’s hand and snatches the ring back, only to slide it onto Hubert’s finger.

“We are a little young to be thinking of marriage,” Hubert says, trying to sound offhand. It is hard. It feels right to be wearing Ferdinand’s ring. He likes it. He wishes he could keep it forever.

“Do not quibble,” Ferdinand scoffs. “People our age get married all the time. Besides, I said in a few years. I am simply making sure I get in first.”

Hubert’s cheeks burn. “I doubt I will have a long line of suitors vying for my hand.”

Ferdinand leans against him. “I would rather be certain there are none at all.”

Hubert cannot think of a response to that. Instead, he wraps his arms around Ferdinand. They sit in silence for a mere ten seconds. Then Ferdinand twists in order to look back at him.

“Do you not have something for me?” he demands.

Hubert chuckles. “I did not know that we came here today with the purpose of becoming engaged. I am afraid that I am unprepared.”

Ferdinand huffs and settles back against him.

“All the same,” he mumbles.

Hubert thinks for a moment, then holds up his left hand. On his middle finger is a silver ring with a onyx stone the colour of midnight. It is the first gift he received from Lady Edelgard, the only family that has ever mattered. Ferdinand lifts a finger and runs it over the smooth surface of the stone.

“When I have fulfilled my duty and obligations to Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says in Ferdinand’s ear, “I will give you this ring as a sign of my everlasting love and devotion.”

Ferdinand laces their fingers together as he rests his head back against Hubert’s shoulder. His smile is dazzling and filled with adoration, causing Hubert’s heart to jump. Warmed in that glow, he smiles back before seeking Ferdinand’s lips with his own.

**Author's Note:**

> This story has consumed my mind for the better part of the last fortnight. After seeing CryptidKaye's art, I couldn't get the image or the subject of the original painting—lovers separated by religious creeds, the one refusing to abandon their beliefs despite the other's pleas—from my mind. Because they are Ferdibert.
> 
> And also, Ferdinand's hair. He is a Pre-Raphaelite model, no doubt.
> 
> So if you haven't yet, check out [@CryptidKaye](https://twitter.com/CryptidKaye); my twitter is [@RuneTari](https://twitter.com/RuneTari); my beta emiwaka29 is amazing; and this is not the one for Trix, but nonetheless I hope she and everyone else enjoyed it. Stay safe!


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